


FateStuck

by Nhitori



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nhitori/pseuds/Nhitori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> They say, that those whose fates are closely linked, are tied together by a red string. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In another life, there's no Alternia, no games, no monsters.  Yet, the very same people who once played that game find themselves once again at the center of a great change in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Roxy

There is something about the CrockerCorp Home For Misplaced Children. Well, several somethings, you’re aware, for example the fact that a baking company has branched out into so many different corporate areas, including, apparently, foster homes. Then, you think, maybe it’s better to call this place something out. Foster homes and orphanages usually seek to have their residents adopted, but you’ve never even seen any ads out for this place, and the sort of people who come by don’t really seem so much like aspiring parents.

You aren’t sure what to call it, really, but you know that it’s certainly not any normal location. On the rare occasion that somebody is adopted, it almost seems by Betty’s glee that she’s asking quite the hefty sum. That woman has always cared more about money than anything else, and another thing that always struck you as odd was the fact that the CEO of a successful company would ever take the time to visit the orphanage she founded, given that it was only one of many business ventures, but she actually spends quite a bit of time here.

This is just one of many things that you find suspicious, but unfortunately, you can’t exactly determine anything to do about that. Solving the mystery of Ms. Crocker’s behavior and the oddities of this place are high on your priority list, but there’s an unfortunate matter that keeps you from investigating as you might like to. Betty’s got this friend, who’s here 24/7. You don’t talk to him often, you don’t know much at all about him, but you know one thing. When he’s around, he always spots you.

You’d like to think that you’re quite spectacular at sneaking around; well, you ought to be, anyway. You discovered a long time ago that if you thought that you’d prefer not to be seen, then you wouldn’t be. A legitimate effect of strange powers which you never gave much thought to, despite knowing somehow that this surely isn’t _normal_. This invisibility, though… doesn’t serve much purpose around that man. You don’t know his first name, but you do know that he’s the father of some of your fellow teens.

The Makaras, to be exact. Those two, along with Betty’s own children, were the only ones here who weren’t orphaned in some way or another. You’ve been told, that you and Dirk’s parents are still alive somewhere. Unfortunately, it seems that they abandoned you both, though you can’t blame them. Dealing with twins, was probably something that they didn’t expect, and you’re sure that the sort of people to birth you and your brother would most likely have been unprepared for the task of children.

In any case, Mr. Makara’s a strange guy. No matter how careful you are, he always seems to be able to figure out what’s going on. It’s not just you, either; it seems like he can do anything, from seeing you while you’re invisible to discarding portions of Nepeta’s bead collection. If you had to guess how he does it, you’d have to assume that he’s somehow able to tell when inhuman abilities are at play. With that in mind, of course, you’re completely unable to spy on the adults as you so longingly wish to do.

Maybe that’s for the best, anyway. It’s not exactly the nicest thing to do, spying on people, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Though it is odd, everyone here is pretty odd themselves. You could just drop the issue and brush it off that Ms Crocker started paying so much attention to this orphanage after discovering the peculiar abilities of the children here, but nonetheless, you can’t help but feel like there’s something deeper going on.

The sticking point is the adoptions, after all. If Betty was only keeping such a close eye on you out of curiosity, or keeping you safe, then it wouldn’t make sense that she would still allow the occasional adoption to occur. Knowing her opinion on profits, and her attitude after an adoption, the only conclusion you can come to is that she’s somehow, for some purpose, selling people. A rather disgusting prospect, so you’d prefer not to think of it, but as soon as its wormed your way into your brain, just like a catchy song, you can’t get rid of it.

“Hey, Dirk?” You began one night, breaking a silence in the evening, “Do you ever wonder why we’re here…?”

“Why we’re here?” He questioned, getting to his feet so he could stand with his arms crossed on the railing of your bed. Everyone here seemed to be a pair of siblings, sharing rooms. Dirk had ever-so-graciously surrendered the top bunk to you, “You mean in a metaphysical sense, or like, a literal sense?”

“Uh, either one I guess?” You shrugged, sitting up to look your twin in the eyes, “It’s sort of an open-ended question, don’t you think? I guess I mean both. Why we’re in this place, as opposed to somewhere else. And why we exist,” You held a hand out, shifting your gaze to your own fingers as you kept speaking, “Why I can disappear like this. Why the others, can do the things that they do… and if we’re safe here?”

“Isn’t it obvious that we’re not? Or, at least, you’re not,” He answered you so matter-of-factly that you couldn’t help but fall onto your side again, watching him with your head now resting at the foot of your bed, “I can’t really accomplish anything, but neither can John or Jade, right? At least, nothing that they ever let the adults see. And they’ve been here the longest of anybody.”

“So, do you think what I’ve been thinking?” You ask, then realize that you and Dirk aren’t quite _that_ in tune, so you have to clarify, “I mean, I can’t help but think that maybe, she’s using us? It’s dumb, I know, and it’s stupid of me to assume that just because she’s Miss Business means that she has to be some sort of one hundred percent moneygrubbing queen of underhandedness, but it just seems suspicious, you know? Do you think she’s selling us to people, to use these… powers?”

“It’s certainly plausible,” He nods, and you frown, sitting up again so quickly you hit your head on the ceiling, “In fact, I’d say the chances of it being farfetched are… ten percent. At the very least, there’s something sketchy here.”

“So I’m not just being paranoid?” You questioned, raising an arm up above your head to lay it across your temple but bumping your elbow on the ceiling in the process. Jeez, can you stop injuring yourself like this? It’s kind of ridiculous, that the ceiling has now become your clear mortal enemy.

“Oh no, you’re totally being paranoid. But I mean, so am I. Probably runs in the family. So in the opinion of a fellow paranoid person, this theory of human capitalism makes perfect sense, but I can’t speak for anybody else. The thing is, paranoia does serve a purpose. If you expect the absolute worst case scenario at any and all times, then you’ll always be prepared,” He explained, and you nodded slowly, “For example. If you really think this is going on, you have to be ready to escape from whoever may end up getting you.”

“Mm, I can do that,” You nod once again, then swing your legs over the railing of the bed, “I could, anyway. Or I could prevent that situation from ever happening by just running away right now, couldn’t I?”

“Well technically, yes, but that wouldn’t be the smartest idea. Where would you go? How would you survive?” He questioned, and you bit the inside of your cheek, “And if we’re wrong, and everything’s fine here, then that’s a waste. You’ll be miserable for no reason.”

“I guess you’re right,” You shrug with a light sigh and situate yourself once more in your top bunk, closing your eyes as you sink into the pillow, “Well, that’s not a decision that I gotta make right now, anyway. I can sleep on it at the very least…”


	2. Karkat

For a long time now, you’ve been under the impression that you are, in some way, somehow, cursed. It isn’t a baseless conclusion, you aren’t usually the type to make those. Usually. Rather, the issue of this curse is a matter of concrete evidence that you’ve gathered over the years. Your friend Terezi would be so proud of you if she heard that train of thought.

Terezi; well, to say the least, she’s important to you, but to say a lot more she’s the only type of friend you feel you should be permitted to have. Online. She lives all the way in Florida where she lives a sweltering life, and the only thing that the both of you really have in common in terms of residency is the country and the amount of precipitation that you get. Oregon’s a rainy place, after all, but otherwise has nothing in common with the sunshine state as far as you can tell. It never gets so hot here that you’d die if you wore a sweater (as you do) and never gets so cold that you really need a winter jacket, either.

Mild winters, mild summers, the entire east coast has got to admire that. Your state has absolutely no bearing on why you think that you’ve been cursed, it is a rather nice place to live, if strange. Portland’s a relatively safe city, given that even the most waifish of people could probably beat up any and all of the homeless population in the city if it were necessary. Your theories, rather, come based in a childhood incident and extend forward through the remainder of your life.

It began when you were in the first grade, if you think enough about it. Your father and your brother both have got some sort of fuckwitted obsession with Christianity, though they now respectfully allow your dislike of the religion. You’ve got a good enough reason, anyway. First grade, that’s when it was. Before starting school regularly you’d gone to the church’s Sunday school occasionally, seeing as it was often a pain for the teachers to get you to sit still at such a young age, and your mother was perfectly willing to stay home and watch you while the boys went to pray and all that.

But, once you were smart enough to stay still and pay attention in a regular classroom, that must have meant that you could go to church regularly, too. And with your father’s position as such a respected member of the church, they were even willing to give you a home tutor to catch you up on the lessons you had missed or not paid attention to in the past. A member of the clergy, it was, who wasn’t really known for being good with kids but was stupendous at teaching adults and wanted to try his hand with a young child.

Try his hand. God, the thought of that phrase in relation to him makes you just want to retch. He wanted to try his hand, all right. Try putting his hands all over somebody. Try ruining a life, that’s what he did. The first day you were home alone with him, that’s when you were cursed, and you’re certain of it. It was he who turned your blood cells against you, he who turned your perfect health to disease, and he who made you fear the contact of another human being.

And the curse, was all of those things. Plus one more. It was a long time, a few months, before it happened. Before you looked into those rotten, awful eyes, and wished he would confess. You knew that you would hardly be believed if you tried to explain this to anybody, tried to say what happened to you, but you wanted him to confess. That was what you wanted most in the world, and something prompted you to say it out loud. Confess. You commanded him to confess. Then, he did. As if a marionette, he stood and pulled his phone out and confessed, entire time his face contorted wildly in fear.

You controlled him.

You made him do that.

It scared you. You were absolutely terrified, that you could do something like this. That something like this could ever happen. You couldn’t even think of how to explain it, until the day you found corroborating evidence in two different forms. Nepeta, and your mother. Nepeta Leijon… you haven’t spoken to her in years, not since that happened. Your mother. You killed her. They all said that it couldn’t have been your fault, that it was an obvious accident. An accident it was, but it was your fault.

It became clear. You had the power to control those who felt strong emotions towards you. Love, lust, hatred too, probably. You never tried to test it. You didn’t want to test it. You don’t want this, this curse which makes you an unsuitable person to ever become close to. You can hardly control it at all, as those incidents proved, and you know it turns you into some sort of puppeteer. With such an easy method of manipulation, you could never allow yourself to have friends, or date anybody, for fear that you would be warping them into doing things that they consciously would not.

If you are to care for somebody, you’d prefer it be something real rather than some sort of control. Rather, if somebody is to care for you; you know that it only works if they feel a genuine way towards you, of course, but the problem is that it clearly operates on your subconscious. You never needed to actively think of something, your thoughts would be put into action the moment you looked into the eyes of somebody who cared. It was a curse, and that was the only possible explanation.

You’d prefer not to believe in this sort of thing, of course, but it was hard to deny that your life did have quite a number of bolgias you’ve fallen into; and of course, it was obvious by now that this mysterious power you held was most certainly something real, and not just an explanation that your child brain made up for why your abuser had so suddenly decided to confess his sins. It cause quite an uproar in the community, and unfortunately, the command to confess wore off before the trial, so he pled not guilty. The jury let him go, and the town would never believe that you’d actually been through Hell; but at least, it made him stop.

The damage was already done to you, but with him out of the picture, you at least had a shot at recovering somewhat. Maybe. You thought, so, anyway-

“I love you.”

Those words he said to you. You’d always, for your whole life, felt as if you were alone in a room. But, that room was lit, and there was a door slightly ajar through which you could hear the outside world. Until him. As soon as he touched you, the lights flickered out and the door slammed shut and you were lost to the world. There was no way to make a full recovery from that. No way to go on living; only to survive. Your life is not a life.

You are broken.  
Your father lies, your brother lies, they say they care about you and you know that they only pity you. They are the sort of men who would hate you outright if you were not so incredibly pathetic, and you can’t allow them to deny it.

It was only by your mother’s argument, that you were allowed certain things. While Kankri and your father were begrudged over needing to move to find a friendlier church after you’d ruined their chances with the familiar one, she was asking you how you felt in ways she never had before, she was telling you to search your emotions, rather than just say how you felt on any particular day. It was the tragedy that spurred her to this, but you felt she was apt at it, and should have done it sooner.

And it’s by her actions that you could change your name, and get puberty blockers among the brand new cocktail of meds this incident had left you with. Her gentle words towards you and her fierce ones towards your father, an allowance you never would have been afforded were it not for her presence. Even now, he honors her wishes. Even now, he tolerates you out of pity, and some sort of respect for the dead.

Even now, you wish you didn’t hold this power.

You would have gone years putting up with that man, if it had meant your mother would have stayed alive.


	3. Eridan

You are jealous of humanity.

That is to say, that you envy those around you. The population on the whole, of human beings, is something that seems detached from you. It’s certainly an odd happenstance, but as time’s gone by you’ve started to care a lot less about the detachment, though the vein of jealousy still runs just as deep as it ever has and ever could.

You are not jealous of their humanity. Only of humanity on the whole and its ability to function in a manner that is entirely inaccessible to you. If you were to explain it, you’d have to say it’s something like an activity you partook in up until you graduated middle school. A striking similarity to swimming; indoor poors have a particular atmosphere about them that gives them the feeling of being an entirely different world. You know it’s just the chlorine, but you still can’t help but feel like there’s nothing outside of that room when you’re there.

And that, that’s how you feel constantly, on a regular basis. As if you’re in a room like that, and there’s windows in the floor and if you try really hard you can swim down to the bottom of the pool and look through the windows and pretend like you’re a part of that world, a part of reality, but it never lasts. You have to come up for air eventually, you have to let buoyancy take over and bring you back to the surface of the water, you have to give up on trying to be a part of that world.

And that’s the strangest thing, that leaves you envious of humanity. They do not need to fight to be a part of the world that they see, they don’t need to be constantly pushing forward, because they will be remembered nonetheless. For your part, it seems that the moment you relax, the very second that you cease making an active effort to involve yourself in this world through the window, you are forgotten entirely. It’s as if you never existed at all, until you appear again and they remember you for that. You are there, but you aren’t really there.

You can sit in class, you can go online, you can go through life as usual, but if you aren’t trying to be engaged with the world before you then it will honestly be as if you were never there in the first place. Your name isn’t called on attendance. Your username cannot be found through search engines. For all intents and purposes, it seems as if you aren’t real at all.

The only people who recall that you exist during these times are people as absolutely detached from humanity as you are. Your elder brother, who would rather lock himself in his room and play guitar than ever go to school. Your friend Feferi, whose mother is an important businesswoman who’s never home, and her own sister Meenah, the pair of whom basically needed to raise themselves in a large and empty home.

These four people, yourself included, are not a part of humanity. You’re as human as anyone else, yes, but you’re outsiders to the world. Feferi is the only one who truly manages to bridge the gap between yourselves and the rest of the world, gathering with her a collection of friends who gabbed and chatted and treated her wonderfully, but it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t true. When they turned around, she was still on the other side of a wall.

You have to feel bad, that she’s included in this. She clearly wants to try to be a part of humanity, but it just won’t allow her in. And… as a result, she’s stuck with you. One of the only people who remembers your existence at all times, but boy, it sure would be spectacular if she… didn’t. You don’t believe so directly, of course, but you can tell that it’s been a long time coming that she’s sick of you and sick of dealing with you. She has to wonder if you’re a figment of her imagination, in your wishy-washy presence, and you don’t blame her. After so long, you’d be sick of yourself too.

Well, you kind of are. Not that you’d ever do anything about that, but it’s getting awfully tiring, putting up with yourself. As cheesy as it may sound to do soul-searching, it seems like you might need an awfully big dose of that. You’ve lost track of who and how you’re possibly supposed to; no, no, you know how you’re supposed to be. That’s the problem. You don’t really know the truth anymore.

You know the way that you’re supposed to be. You’re a boy, a rich boy, you should be lecherous and rude to people, you should flirt with anything that wears a skirt and act like you own the place, and fall into the ever-persistent statement of, you know, men are only after one thing. That’s what you should be and the way you’ve, at times, been. However, it doesn’t quite feel correct, doesn’t seem like the way you really should be.

Cronus, he fills that idea but in his own way, it’s as if he took the way he was supposed to be and stretched it just a little further to be universally annoying and majorly unlikeable. He took the expectations people had for him and took it a step further by applying those ideas to the further thought of a sensitive musician, and you have to think he’s probably pretty confused himself. It’s obvious that music is what he cares about, but you’re not sure if anything else about him is genuine, given how little of your own behavior is real.

Being rude; well, you’ve tried not doing that, and it didn’t exactly work out, so it’s clear that one level of your behavior is true, but when it comes to the rest of it you can’t help but turn your nose up. People always said, that men were basically always set to ‘on’ when it came to sexual activity. You’ve seen this in action too, in the news. Men and boys who’d had unwanted encounters with women prompted so many commenters saying that it couldn’t have been unwanted, that they were jealous, but all you ever felt was disgusted.

Disgusted, because it’s disgusting, truly fucking disgusting. And it’s not just the unwanted sexual encounters, because you’re beginning to feel as if any sexual encounter at all, at least on your part, would be unwanted. There are those who would likely say that you’re being ridiculous, that couldn’t possibly be the case, but you can’t deny any longer that it’s certainly the way that you feel. You… would like romance, you think, but if it came to tongues or nudity that would have to be where you draw the line.

Ah, but that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Just another thing, that leaves you on the outside of humanity after all. Another aspect of the world that crushes you with the pressure of the water you’re swimming in and another layer on the glass. Another thing that makes you wish, just hope so entirely, to escape. You want to escape. You need to escape. You need to get out of here.


	4. Rose

It’s thundering tonight.

That’s not at all unusual, of course. Not for you, not for your house. It thunders here often, very often, and you can’t say that you’ve ever gotten completely used to it. It isn’t like other parts of the country which have one set and expected season of storms. All summer. All summer and some of the fall and some of the spring, there could be a thunderstorm, especially out here. If you were closer to the city you’d have somewhat different weather, but as if the atmosphere is aware of the near-unpopulated nature of these woods where your home is, the air crackles and booms with alarming frequency.

Once upon a time, this was a positive aspect of your location. Back then, you loved thunderstorms. You loved the way that the roaring thunder reverberated across your entire body and left you shaking where you stood, loving watching those streaks of bright light streak across the sky in glorious bursts. It was a wonderful experience, but… That’s a piece of the past now.

The last time you ever thought you could love a thunderstorm was the very first night that you discovered an unfortunately detrimental ability. You aren’t sure quite what triggered it. Maybe it was his fault, or maybe you just never had reason to see those things in the past. In any case, that night was also the worst drawback you ever received for the biggest change you ever made. You nearly died. Nearly. Obviously not, given that you’re still here today,

It’s a price that you could pay. So you paid it. You saw her die, your mother. You saw it happen but you’d never tell anybody that. You’d never say that you acted to prevent such a thing, you’d rather let them believe the scar which you hate so much was truly an accident. People say to be proud of your scars, that they’re proof of bravery and survival, but you find it a horribly ugly badge of failure and naivety. You would have never been outdoors in that storm if not for him. You would have never known him at all if you had been smart. If you had been anything less than foolishly, fully trusting…

You would prefer not to dwell on what you should or shouldn’t have done, how your naivety in allowing that man to take advantage of you endangered your mother’s life. You could have let her die that day, when you saw it. Walking over to you, the tallest thing in the field compared to your exhausted body lying on the ground, and struck in that storm. Even with your house, with all the trees, it seemed that particular bolt was convinced that area was the answer to its existential crises, and ending a life was the result. That’s what you saw. So you stopped it.

You hid. You hid so she would go inside the house instead of finding you there and meeting with her death, and as the door closed behind her you stood, to make your own way inside, but somehow found yourself instead the victim. Alive, but barely. Hardly an eye for an eye when she would have been killed had you not been spurred to preventative action.

You woke in the hospital with new scars on your back and running down the backsides of your arms, and you could see them when you moved your arm and you knew the ones on your back were still there, would always be there, and you hated it. You had tried to do the right thing even in a moment of confused crisis and you’d been punished with these brands. Why, was there any morality in this world?

He’d said he was afraid of the storm, and wouldn’t you keep him company in the basement? He knew you loved to watch the storm, but would you please? He’d be awful lonely hiding all by himself. Awful lonely indeed. Lonely with no little girl to hold and throw and thrash and break, to drop outside in the storm, right in the driveway, before driving away in that bright white pickup truck, maybe hoping your very own mother would run you over on her return. Even so she found a daughter struck by lightning, abandoned outdoors by the supposedly trustworthy babysitter, who had managed to roll from the pavement to what should have been relative safety.

You know you have a strong mother. You always knew, even then, that she was strong, but if you were to be killed she would be crushed nonetheless. Every other aspect of the situation, she could handle, as long as she was not responsible for your death. When you woke up she’d already discovered that Doctor’s name was a false one, and that your assault matched the M.O. of a serial attacker, and she apologized but promised to do everything possible to find him. A good mother, at heart, you’re sure. Bitter as you are that she never really paid you back for saving her life, despite never even knowing that you did.

You saw it in that field. What you needed to do. You saw it.

You saw the future that you could only change by forsaking yourself.

Tonight it’s thundering again, and your scar prickles. It’s pseudoscience at best, for scars to hurt in the presence of the cause, for joints to tell when it will rain; yet, even if it is psychosomatic, you feel it. You fear it, but not for the bolt which struck you, but for the memories of that night. How he claimed fear before turning that which you once loved into a weapon against you. All the pain and fear and utter feelings of hopelessness, and now you can only look at the storm and feel disgusted with everything that it represents for you. You despise how he’s turned it against you.

Your mother says you can move. Well, she says, but that’s not an option. You’re certain, so certain, that she only says it to mock you for your reaction each time it thunders. No, it’s fine. Quite fine. You’ll just hide under the covers and go to sleep when your heart finally settles and your breathing hits an easy pace. As always.

Trauma is only a minor inconvenience for a Lalonde.


	5. Damara

They said you were blessed. That’s what they’ve always told you, though the context persistently differs as time goes on. When you were three years old, you discovered an ability to make time stand still; it was when you were about to be punished for having not cleaned your room, and suddenly, everything was at a standstill. You were smart enough, somehow, to take advantage of this to get your room clean, and as soon as you willed it time resumed and your parents had nothing to shout about after all. That was the beginning.

Always devout, having taken you to church even when you were but a mewling infant child, it was their judgment and their decision that they had been honored with a blessed, favored child of God, and that you were that child, a tangible and long-awaited reward to their faith. What was to stop you from believing that as well? Nothing at all prevented you from feeling the very same way. Had they been any less confident in their faith maybe you would have been branded an abomination for the strange happenstance. Aid from the devil rather than from God.

Hm, well, you never truly corrected them on the nature of the power you were granted. They only believe that any time something like that happened, it was a spontaneous intervention to make your life more pleasant from a higher power. You’re convinced that this life of yours, it really was granted by God. That won’t change, however, their idea of this power is rather… Offensive, to you. The thought that divine intervention could come in such a direct manner. Humanity is only urged to goodness, not given it without thought. Your gift from God only inspires you to work harder in a frozen moment. Your blessings come from effort.

Is it so hard to understand, that’s how it works? You wouldn’t think so, yet here it is and always has been, everyone who hears about you comes to the conclusion that you’re simply being showered in miracles by some merit of your family’s faith. It’s honestly enough to make you want to turn and tell the entire truth and give up on caring if you were branded a witch, but… You’re sure if that was what God wanted, you’d have received a sign long ago.

Each piece of scripture and each prayer you offer up, every question to divinity you pose, it all seems to point you towards secrecy. Perhaps it’s only in your head, these answers; anyone of faith has doubted it at times of course, but regardless of anything else you can’t deny the gifts that he has granted you.

You also can’t deny that it would certainly take blessings to still be here today, where you are, after having met a certain man. His name was Jack, and the way he stared at you made it obvious, dreadfully clear, that he knew. He saw beyond your high collar and long hem and the cross necklace you clutched in one hand as you shook his with the other and he knew that the phenomenon was not completely true, that there was more to it than you were letting on. He saw through that and so much more, you could tell by the way he looked at you. He was gruff and intimidating and looked like he could kill without a second thought, but he also somehow understood.

Understood the way you thought. Saw the bundled up anger towards the mistreatment towards your gifts and any other piece of repressed neurodivergence that you needed to swallow down for the sake of remaining as you were, the very model of a perfect daughter, a girl lauded by some as a potential messiah, or at least by most as one clearly touched by God’s grace if it was too much for them to loosen their garters and believe the messiah might not be a man.

His single visit to your home was as a repairman, for a problem you were unclear on the nature of. He said some sort of backwards, mechanic’s technobabble, but you figured it was important enough to allow him in the house. He was polite enough, you thought, and while he’d obviously heard of you he didn’t seem the type to give it much stock, or at least to care. You always learned to respect others and different beliefs, so it wasn’t a fearful thing that he didn’t give a rat’s ass to your position. Rather, it gave a sense of security to be allowing somebody who wasn’t an evangelist fan of your existence into the house.

Everyone says you should regret that action, but you can’t say that you do. Even from the very moment he made off with your sister, you had your mind made up on what to do. He seemed to know what he was doing, somehow, and you weren’t going to interfere. When asked if you knew anything at all about who could have possibly kidnapped sweet little Aradia, you said you hadn’t the faintest clue. If that were the wrong decision, you would have heard about it somehow. Experienced some sort of retribution, but you never did. You made the right choice, to send her off with the strange man named Jack who could see through falsehoods in moments.

People said that it was just more of God’s will. The religious psychiatrists you were sent to in order to cope with the abduction of your sister, that unholy mingling of such a profession with religion. No matter how much you revere a higher power you can’t say with any confidence you trust somebody to diagnose your brain with Him in mind. As it was, they only tried to assuage you by saying that it was your blessing that kept you safe and that clearly, your sister had turned away from the light and was being punished for it.

You can’t say you believe them on an individual level. Your faith feels as if it’s in an entirely different realm than theirs; they shout it from the rooftops in loud and often irrelevant statements that they love and worship a deity, yet, they seem ingenuine to you. You’re content to live your life in a shroud as much as you can, to be quiet and mild and avoid the publicity for your gifts or for your missing sister.

It’s ridiculous. To you, at least, it isn’t as if she’s really missing anyway.

[AltruantAbel started pestering apocalypseArisen at 7:02 AM]  
AA: DEAR ARADIA I HOPE YOUR DAY IS WONDERFUL AND FULL OF JOY TELL JACK I SAY HELLO  
AA: y0u still type like a m0m what did i tell y0u ab0ut typing like a m0m  
AA: I AM SORRY I DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW TO UNCAPITALIZE  
AA: i am h0mesch00led and i still kn0w m0re ab0ut the c0ntemp0rary w0rld than y0u -_- will y0u ever j0in this century?  
AA: VERY DOUBTFUL DEAR SISTER I AM SORRY MUST GO TO CLASS NOW LOVE YOU  
AA: l0ve y0u t00 cant wait till y0u get a b0yfriend 0r s0mething t0 teach y0u h0w t0 text 0-0 nevermind that is a frightening mental image

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damara's texts were originally laced with cringeworthy levels of emojis but apparently, those don't carry over to ao3 very well.


	6. Vriska

There are a whole lot of things to hate about Florida. The sticky heat, the bugs, the torrential downpours that ruin trips to amusement parks, the obnoxious people taking trips to amusement parks; the fact that you’re _here_ when you could just as easily be somewhere else that didn’t have such a high rate of melting bug carcasses. The fact that the bastard who cost you your arm is still out and about.

Oh, right, that. When you were younger, much younger, you and your friend Terezi were out for a walk. You were eight. At half your current age, you’d only just earned the shared privilege of being able to walk places without adult supervision, though you can’t say you think adult supervision would have changed any outcomes of that afternoon. Perhaps, it would have only inspired another victim. Regardless, it wasn’t out of any idiocy or recklessness that the incident occurred. Incident. Not accident, as so many people seemed to believe. Still do to this day, but you and Terezi know the truth. People don’t just drive full speed up onto sidewalks in the bright of day.

Not without some sort of ill intent. You don’t know how sick somebody’s gotta be to wanna get the blood of two eight year olds on that pristine white paintjob the fucker has, but certainly nobody who has any right to walk free. Oh, but he does. You see him. You see him all the time; not many people drive a pickup truck that clean, let alone a white one. He speaks to you, sometimes. Rolls up next to you and offers some friendly words as if he only wants to chat. Tells you he lived in New York before moving here, and lots of places before that too, but the warm Florida air is good for his arthritis. He mocks you.

Sometimes you wish he’d taken four eyes that day instead of just three. That’s the thing, though. The way he hit, he slammed into Terezi pretty hard and knocked her to the ground. Gravelly road, her eyes were toast, but she was otherwise capable of recovery. Meanwhile, you took the brunt of it, pushing her out of the way on the ground, only to end up with tire tracks across your right side. Arm was toast, but they could reconstruct your face. Well, except for the eye. In any case, you could see just fine once you got used to the lack of depth perception, but you often wish you couldn’t. Terezi would have your ass on a platter for thinking that way; you don’t care. For all the difficulties she faces at least she doesn’t have to see the man who did that to her.

You still don’t understand how he got away with it, but years have long since taught you that he must be very good at convincing judges and juries, and even the police who “arrest” him to a nice hotel room. His car is the most recognizable thing about him, but you can still spot him a mile away with or without the car. Man spends an awful lot of time just sitting on benches at Disneyworld. Now, you have no intention of skipping out on a season pass when you get old and move back here in the distant future, but you can also bet your ass that you’ll still be dragging your brittle bones onto Space Mountain every other day of the week; despite your home’s location and mother’s willing purchases making the theme park your ideal hangout, you’d never come down here just to sit on a bench.

He brings teacups in with him, too. Legitimate porcelain teacups, you noticed him break one once. He seems to have them filled with whatever overpriced beverage he wants to purchase that day, so that must be why the parks allow it. A teacup full of mountain dew, for example. Not that you spend a lot of time watching him; only that you hang out here most days during the summer, and have been doing so since you were twelve. Before that, your family still went about every week or so. By now you can recognize just about any frequent park visitor there could possibly be.

Not to mention, some of those visitors just so happen to have extraordinary luck. Well, these games are all rigged, so even that’s not really enough to cash in on the big prizes; however, should that luck be combined, is another story. Luck’s not a finite resource; people just have different limits. If luck’s used up, it’ll replenish up to the highest amount of luck that person can hold. Therefore, you really don’t feel bad snatching it for yourself; not like it’d be much use to them on vacation anyway. You really can’t explain it; you just know, how lucky somebody is, and you take it. Simple as that. Your own luck doesn’t seem to be able to replenish itself beyond a certain point, just the same as any other, but it seems that borrowed luck can break that threshold with ease.

Really, you just want to see the looks on people’s faces when you seize upon that one in a billion chance at winning. A lot of the prizes suck anyway, so you give a lot of them away, usually to whichever of your benefactors looks like they’d have the least opportunity to bribe the booth’s operator for one of their own. People seem awfully appreciative of theme park pieces of crap. Not that you’re complaining, it’s nice to get the attention. Positive attention, too. A spectacularly rare treat.

And an unnerving one. You’re used to sneers and glares and all sorts of other beratements. Occasionally you’ll even manage to garner a chewing out from a stranger, and boy, is that something! As long as all eyes are on you, you really don’t care what the reason or intent is. However… Being nice does have those small perks. It’s more fulfilling to be praised than admonished, though you can hardly think of what to do to flip the scale of commonality. It seems like a pain, so you just won’t try. Stick to what you know, and that’s being a hooligan.

Okay, maybe not quite to that extent. But, you do cut in line at Space Mountain. Just a little. A few families, not even enough to get indoors, but there are still tiny riots which you eventually silence by showing off your prosthetic arm when it just gets too tiring to keep listening to them, even if it is all about you, “Listen up, fuckos. See this hunk of metal? I’m _supposed_ to get a free fastpass for it, but apparently, somebody at the ticket booths needed a doctor’s note as proof. Proof that my arm’s gone. I took off my prosthetic and he still asked for a note so? Just be glad I’m only cutting this much.”

“Miss, there are children here! Watch your language!” A scrawny guy, who shockingly looks about your age, speaks up in defense. Oh the humanity.

“Eh? Yeah, I’m aware. They’re gonna hear it sometime or another so who’s to say it matters?” You flash him a toothy grin, “Oi, you with anybody? This ride’s two people to a seat, so if I pair up with somebody who’d be alone anyway I’m not even adding to the line.”

“...What?” He questions, and you roll your eyes, gesturing for him to come stand with you. He hesitates a moment, but then walks your way, and you throw your actual flesh and bone arm around his shoulders.

“You intrigue me, kiddo. What sort of teen uses a ‘think of the CHILDREN’ defense unironically?” You snicker, “Look, one step on a schoolyard does any child ten better than I possibly could’ve by loudly saying fuckos, you get me?”

“Who says I was doing it unironically?” He questions, giving you a rather blank look from behind a pair of aviator shades. Suited to the weather. The longsleeve shirt he’s paired them with, not so much.

“You sounded pretty legit. I won’t hold it against you though, I’m sure as a Gen-Y guy… You’re a guy, right? In today’s world is bound to have some sort of deep rooted psychological reason for not wanting little kids to hear swear words. Lemme guess. Something to do with your upbringing. Uh, an overly vulgar family member, stirring in you a desire to preserve the innocence in other children that you never got to experience yourself?”

“I’m not going to answer that question. I can’t say I’m fond of being psychologically probed by hyper-adolescent rebel girls, thanks.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t do that _really_ often. Just if, you know, it’s fucking obvious. I watch a lot of Criminal Minds. I know that show’s not totally accurate but really, you’re just too easy. There isn’t really any other scenario for your behavior, anyway, unless you were like super into some religion, but you didn’t strike me as the type. Though I guess you cover up enough, could be Muslim. Are you?”

“No, I’m not religious. Only big guy upstairs I want to answer to is… Uh, I can’t figure out how I was going to finish that. Fuck, I’m off my game. Can’t send out prime bullshit face to face, girl. If you are a girl I mean. Don’t wanna disrespect or anything, like. You did for me,” He was starting to stammer now, but then recomposed himself, “So if we’re going on Space Mountain together they’re gonna fucking photograph us. Gonna have some sort of real time big deal bro commemoration and we only just met, so let’s at least give names, right? I’m Dave Strider.”

You smirk at him and nod, “Vriska Serket, professional bitch, at your service. Now I get you’re not good on swearing loudly around little kids but what’s your opinion on general fucking shit up?”

“Like vandalism or whatever? Yeah, Banksy’s my best friend. And by best friend I mean I know nothing about him or his work but he’s quite the street art meme.”

“Mmhm. Well, Strider, looks like for the duration of your vacation; at least, I’m going by the bag of souveneirs that you’re a tourist, you and I will get along just swimmingly. Just one question,” You pause, then give one more teasing grin, “If you’re this cool, have you got a sister? I’d love to make her acquaintance.”


	7. Nepeta

It’s you. Always you. It’s always been you, and that’s the honest truth. Blame the world? Blame other people? You couldn’t do something like that. Not now, not after so long when you finally know the meaning of you, of self, of existence. It was always just you, when you succeeded and when you failed, and it was always just you convincing yourself of things that didn’t make sense. Maybe it was because of some outside force that you felt the need to think these things, but it’s your fault nonetheless.

It was all silly stuff, anyway. Convincing yourself of things that were clearly not true. That you had fallen for a friend of yours, for example. Well. You cared a lot about him, that’s for sure, but you ruined it with that stupid idea that romance was the natural progression to friendship, that platonic love was something that just wasn’t supposed to exist, before meeting with somebody who’d teach you in opposite. Equius Zahhak is one of the only people here at Crockercorp Home For Misplaced Youths that arrived later on in life; you and him were both thirteen when he got here, though you didn’t really get around to talking till a year later.

After you’d already screwed things up with Karkat. Unfortunate, but… Well, as much as you were upset over losing a friend, there was one thing that struck you as incredibly odd about the day you tried to confess your false feelings to him. He panicked, he said he didn’t know if he could possibly date someone, ever, and that was fine. You get it, your sister’s kind of like that except when it comes to Kurloz. Oregon’s a funny place full of weird people; the real issue came up with what happened after he panicked.

You’re really fuzzy on the details, honestly, but you know that he most certainly told you to go away. And you did. You turned and left his apartment and took the elevator to the lobby, then stumbled out and fell down the stairs up to the main door outside. You’ve got a scar on your knee from it, proof that it really happened. You know you would have never fallen down those stairs if you were moving of your own will. You’ve always been far too agile for that; way back in elementary school, you were the reigning monarch of the jungle gym.

In any case, that was three years ago, and you’re far more conscious of yourself these days; the awareness made its way beyond the physical, and you slowly acquired the same knowledge of your emotions as you previously had towards your body. Not that the old skills have gone away either; you’re still just as athletic as ever. The only thing that you could say wasn’t you, was, well…

You had a little bit of help figuring out yourself, on the whole platonic love spectrum, from two different people and one thing. For one, becoming good friends with somebody as… Sexually overt, as Equius, without him ever coming on to you, but even before that the incident with Karkat had you thinking. There was… One other factor. You’ve always had the ability to pick up and collect discarded love, lost love; spats between lovers, rejections, breakups, always left behind that invisible-to-others pink glow which you could gather up and hold onto.

There was none of that when Karkat turned you down; and you knew it was romantic issues which discarded love, so that got you thinking. Maybe there was nothing there from the start. Maybe you were wrong. So, as you threaded bracelets with whatever beads Mr. Makara hadn’t confiscated (you always hid a few of the beads you charged with that love, knowing of his discarding ways) you thought it over, and you wondered. Wondered if maybe, it really was your job to be the matchmaker rather than the match made.

Wondering soon turned to contemplation, then to certainty, and acceptance. You really didn’t much mind, after a little while. You’d much rather just have good friends than have to worry about all the complications of romance for yourself. Let people who really want that have it, and don’t take anything for yourself. Just… Help your friends! That seems like the best idea. So it’s what you do. Give bracelets to people and like magic, they find somebody soon enough. It isn’t irresponsible like a love potion, either; all in all, there’s nothing stopping you.

But that’s an activity for another time! For now, you have to focus on more tangible, less confusing aspects of life. Like the rat you just caught. Yes, caught. It’s a big house, so even with Betty’s best efforts and hired housekeepers who come by weekly when Mr. Makara takes you all out into the city to go shopping and get dinner, there’s bound to be a few vermin. Luckily, your lightning quick reflexes make you an effective mouser! This one’s kind of shocking, though. An albino… You grin as you stand up, holding it by the tail and making your way out into the main rooms of the house.

John’s the first person you run into. Literally, since you’re the only person in the home who’s tall enough to do that. Your head bumps into his feet the minute you step into the kitchen, “Oh, sorry Nep! You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I wasn’t walking that fast…” You duck under his feet then turn around to look up at him, “But, may as well ask since you’re here, have you seen Roxy today?”

He snickers and swoops down till his entire body is on a horizontal level with your face, “Come on, Nepeta! Don’t you know how rare it is to _see_ the lovely Miss Lalonde? I dunno if I remember what she looks like!”

“Ha, ha. Furry funny,” You frown at him teasingly, crossing your arms without dropping the rat you’ve got gripped in your fist, “Come on, I want to show her this cool rat I found! I know she’ll appreciate it the most of anybody here!”

“Who says I don’t appreciate cool rats?” He questions, taking a seat in the air then frowning, “But, now that I think about it… Roxy usually comes to bug me around half past noon on the daily, school or no school… But it’s already two. That is kind of weird… Wonder if the others heard from her today?”

“You wouldn’t have,” Another voice joins the conversation, and you turn to see Dirk sitting on top of the refrigerator. Nothing out of the ordinary, though his words are, “I know where she is. Last night, after I went to sleep, she ran away. Probably halfway across the country by now.”

“She… Ran away?” You freeze, turning to stare at him, wide-eyed, “But… Why would she do that…?”

“Same reason that John hides his flying abilities from Betty and Mr. Makara, of course,” He seems to be staring a hole right through the opposite wall, “We’re livestock.”


	8. Calliope

Music is your virtue. Your one virtue, as far as you’re convinced, but that’s still leagues above your twin brother, who you’re pretty sure has no virtues at all. He says he wants to be a mangaka, but you’re pretty sure that’s not the most viable career option for Japanese people who _moved to America_ at age four. Plus, you’re even more sure that everything he’s made so far has been totally traced. Even you’re better at art than him… But, it’s still nothing to smile at, you think. Nobody really cares for it, but they do care about your music. That’s what you’re good at, so you’ll stick to it.

About your brother… Well, it would be one thing if he were emotionally stunted in some way, but the therapist says he’s completely healthy and normal. Just a really… Unique personality. That’s what they said, but you were there, and you could tell they wanted to use a worse word. That was a bit reassuring. At least, it meant that the bitter feelings you had and continue to hold towards him aren’t additional detriments to your generally unpleasant person.

Today, you’ve been playing piano an awful lot. It isn’t even your main instrument, but this is just what you’ve felt like doing, running through every piece in your music book. It’s a good distraction; you’re far more skilled at the cello and, by association, violin. This takes more focus, since you haven’t practiced it as much. You’d rather be distracted right now, thinking of the message that you woke up to. Roxy Lalonde, one of your only friends here in Oregon, left you a message which you only saw several hours afterwards. Fewer hours than most people, given that it was sent at one in the morning and you woke up to see it at four, but nonetheless, you feel awful that by the time you read it there was nothing you could do.

You wish that maybe, you could have talkes her out of it, but she knew you were asleep when she sent it. You’d said goodnight to her; obviously, she left the message at that time on purpose, not wanting to be contacted.

“TG: hey callie i kno this is like, rly sudden and probs a piece of shit move but im leaving. like srsly leaving. runnin away and no comin back and all that so im sorry. ur the only person im telling bc i guess my roomies will figure it out… eventually lol. theyre kinda used 2 me disappearin. talk 2 dirk if u wanna he can prob explain better than me. ciao callie… we r gonna meet again someday, aight? ily Gross.

You start to inch away, but he’s got an astoundingly strong grip for somebody so boney. You don’t want to tell him off; you hate the way your voice sounds just like his, and he never listens anyway. Of course, that may just make him think he’s in his right mind, but you’re sure he couldn’t possibly be so disillusioned as to think that you’re in any way consenting to his rotten behavior.

You thought that maybe when you came out to him, he’d leave you alone out of pity or discomfort, but the fact that he’d just acquired a “cute imouto” just made him a million times worse. He used to just be annoying, corroborate your self-esteem issues and generally just fuck shit up. But now, well…

This sort of thing’s taught you that it’s better to keep your mouth shut unless you trust somebody, one hundred percent. Roxy was the only person you’d confided in, though her twin knew as well. Funny, how well those two get along compared to your own relationship with your twin. In any case, it’s fine. Neither of them know how Caliborn behaves towards you, and you’re certain that Dirk wouldn’t be so chummy with your brother if he knew. He’s always been kind enough, anyway; and regardless of compassion, he respects you even despite your lack of outlets to present yourself in any way that would make somebody think you were anything other than a boy.

So you don’t answer Caliborn, but slam the keys, hitting a rather unfortunate and discordant note, causing him to immediately jump away as the hallway door opens and your father steps into the room to investigate what could have caused you to make that sound when you usually played so flawlessly. Caliborn’s already managed to throw himself across the room, and even when your father shrugs and takes his leave, your twin remains there at your shared computer desk, pulling out the art tablet to prepare for another productive day of tracing.

You take a deep breath and pretend he isn’t there. Pretend your best friend didn’t just evacuate the state. Pretend that you’ve got your life in any sort of order as the notes to Scarborough Faire fall softly around the room, bringing you once more into that soft and dreamy state where all your troubles seem, not gone, but rather far away.


	9. Feferi

Maine is a rather droll and boring place, but the truth is, you miss it any time you go on vacation. Which is often. Your bigwig mother sends you off on lots of these to try and make up for the fact she’s home once a month at best, you guess. You hardly know the woman, so it’s not like you care. It’s as if a stranger is paying full expenses for the Peixes sisters to entertain themselves on a cruise ship for a while. Oh, and the Amporas on the occasion that Meenah asks to take them along. You know that she and Cronus are hardly on speaking terms, usually his fault, but you suppose she takes pity on him and the younger boy that may or may not actually exist.

Eridan is… An enigma. It’s easy to take him on vacations because everybody seems to look right through him; the one time that you did buy him a ticket, it mysteriously disappeared and was refunded in full. As if even buying the ticket was a bout of unreality, and yet… You feel like, if he were an imaginary friend, he’d be a lot more agreeable. You’ve been trying to convince him all day, to do a cruise activity with you, something, anything. He seems to think you’re sick of him, but you’re really just sick to death of his attitude! It’s been ‘FOR-EVER’ since you’ve seen him smile, after all, and it makes you wonder if there was some incident in his life that made his mood drop so substantially.

When he was little, well, he seemed to think the nonexistence thing was cool and fun, but now he’s just spectacularly lackluster. Ever since the last cruise he joined you on, he’s been in some shell like a sea turtle, and not even the snapping kind. This entire trip he hasn’t been convinced to leave his room, even once. You keep bringing him food and sitting with him to make sure he actually eats it, since it seems he’d leave it untouched if you weren’t there to ensure he doesn’t starve to death. In case it were a battle with food poisoning that put him in this sorry state you’ve been bringing him all the safest items, but you seriously doubt something like that would put Eridan Ampora down by this much.

It has to be something. Something must have happened to him. However… As much as you do care about him, it’s probably for the best that you don’t investigate. You’ve never been good at that sort of thing, is all. Plus, if he wanted you to know, he’d tell you. Boy would he tell you. He hardly ever shuts up, especially not about things which bring him woe. So this is either something not serious enough for him to complain… Or too serious for him to want to saddle you with it. Either option makes it best you don’t get involved.

So you suppose you’ll just wander around. It’s rather obnoxious, to vacation this often. It gets boring pretty fast. You could do an activity, you guess, but you’d rather not do any of them by yourself, so your only other options would be to go swimming (which you’ve already done plenty) sit in your room, or walk around. You didn’t bring anything to read, so it seems that wandering the decks is your best bet.

Time to discover that wandering aimlessly around a cruise ship is just about as good, if not a worse idea, than walking around a city aimlessly. It doesn’t seem like it would be dangerous; being on a boat, a vacation that’s like one extended school field trip with optional activities, would fill anybody with confidence that they are, in fact, safe. Of course, this is a lie, as you discover very soon when you’ve suddenly got a knife pressed to your throat and wall pressed to your back thanks to the efforts of some scruffy looking guys in those lame hawaiian tourist shirts.

What a drag.

“Listen here, girly. You’re gonna do just what we say, or else you’re gonna give the cleaning lady for this room a hell of a time,” He’s trying to threaten you, but you can tell this is his first rodeo. Maybe you can dissuade him from ever trying this sort of thing again.

“Grabbing a girl and pulling her into your room isn’t really the most romantic way of going about things. Besides, if you have your way, wouldn’t that make just as big a mess? Unless your intention was to do it with my corpse? Geez,” You giggle a bit and roll your eyes, “Come on. If that’s the case, boy am I kinkshaming!”

“You really wanna die, girl? Cause I will kill you!” His actions don’t back up his threat; he doesn’t press forward, and his knife isn’t even drawing the smallest beads of blood. Does this guy seriously think you’ve never been killed before? Well, probably, yes...

“So you _are_ a necrophiliac? Well, all right. Guess I’ll indulge you!” You raise a hand and wave it just a bit before lifting a food to the wall behind you, pushing your sole against it to move yourself forward and onto the weapon, moving quickly and with enough force to slit your own throat.

Now, there are two things you know about guys like this. The first is that, as long as you don’t give them the chance to really get into their intentions, they’re all bark and no bite. The second thing is that, no matter how much they threaten to kill you, they won’t go as far as that. Not if they have this sort of body language, not if they demand your cooperation at gunpoint, or, in this case, knifepoint.

One more thing. Even when people do want to kill you (a surprisingly common occurrence) it’s always a big enough shock when you beat them to the punch that they run away anyway, giving you the opportunity to then pull out two kits (first aid and sewing) to patch up whatever damage was done. Bullet wounds are always the toughest; this is just as simple as sewing the wound closed and waiting a little while for everything to get back into its proper place.

Everyone has a secret, and this is yours. As long as you’re expecting it, you can survive anything. Of course, you can’t just leave wounds left untreated, they can still fester and become impossible to deal with, but the fact is that you live. You’ve been through all sorts of physical trauma and survived; many of it caused yourself, seeing as the ability to ‘die’ whenever you want is a pretty useful tool.

So you do just as you always do. Treat the wound, wipe as much of the blood away as you can considering it’s sort of a major artery that got severed, and get to work on sewing it up. The stitches on your neck will seem a bit weird to people, and you’ll have to avoid doing things that could reopen the wound for a little while, but otherwise you’re just as functional as if you hadn’t just been killed;

Okay, more or less. It isn’t like you’re immune to pain, but you are… getting used to it. Besides, you’ve got that infallible optimism on your side! Incredibly bubbly personalities double as a way of becoming tough. You’re athletically capable, and you’ve got a high pain tolerance. Your first course of action right now isn’t to do anything else regarding your injury, but rather, to make a beeline to Eridan’s room.

After all, you just saw firsthand exactly the sort of thing which could have made him… like this.


	10. Kanaya

You’re beginning to think, after many long years of convincing yourself that there must be somebody worth speaking to in this town, that you are the only sensible human being within an immediate ten mile radius, and that most certainly includes your family members. Your mother’s the one who seemed to think it was a good idea to live out here in the absolute boonies of New York, after all. Porrim’s the one who drives into the city every weekend just to see her tattoo artist despite the fact there is actually a rather skilled one right here in town.

One of the only things this town has going for it, honestly. The population is astoundingly small, yet nobody knows anyone because every single house has got a long driveway and an entire street practically to itself. There’s only one school bus, which has to begin its route an hour before school starts in order to reach everyone who needs to take it; and boy, many people take it. This is a town full of irregular workers and hungover mothers and fathers alike; driving children to school is a daunting task.

Your mother is no exception from that category, but you do have the benefit of only being about a quarter of a mile away from the school, and your sister has her own car for when the weather doesn’t cooperate enough for you to walk. It’s bothersome to accept her help, but sometimes it seems you must. A necessary evil. Only when it’s snowing or raining… Which is often. Very often. Today, however, is not one of those days. It was thundering last night, but today is a perfectly sunny summer day;

Oh, right. Summer. Yes, you’re unfortunately going to summer school. Nobody told you that you’d need to make up the credits if you skipped school too often… or if they did, you didn’t listen. You’re not generally a rebellious person. You encourage people not to do dangerous things quite often, although that applies more to your online friends than anyone you’ve met in person. Nobody in person wants to listen to your kind and sagely advice.

Teachers like you, at least. You’d think that they wouldn’t appreciate the amount of skipping that you partake in, but as it seems, your winning personality is worth more than a silly problem like that. Besides, you only skip for good reasons, such as staying up too late on a sewing project, or legitimately fearing for your safety in the school environment due to the astonishing tendency of neglected children to bring harm upon their peers for no individual reasoning.

That’s not every day, but mostly just days that you have a… bad feeling, about going there. It’s strange, isn’t it? You normally wouldn’t believe in supernatural forces, but you very commonly have the thought that it would be better if you weren’t in a certain location at a certain time. You missed the day there was a gas leak at the school, yes, but otherwise it doesn’t seem to have done you any good. Supposedly, that is. Just because nothing bad happened doesn’t mean something bad wouldn’t have happened if you were there, so you’re going to trust in your gut.

Today is fine, though! You can certainly go to summer school today. In fact, you think that after this first day of summer school, you’re not going to have any issues. The already small population is cut even more with the small percentage of students who need to make up lost credits, so you seriously doubt anybody would care to attack _that_. As a matter of fact, you’re already there. Almost. You’re outside the school doors, that is.

The classroom, now. You find it easily; you had a math class in here during the year, but now it’s being used as the catch-all summer school classroom for being so close to the entrance, and thus, easily monitored. No need to bring the kids all the way into the building and risk the flunkies becoming vandals too, after all. You take a seat in the corner, hoping that nobody comes near you, but you instead find another girl seated next to you soon after despite there being a number of seats available elsewhere.

Oh well, nothing to be done about that now. May as well ask what she’s doing here; you don’t believe you’ve ever seen this girl in your life. She’s got short hair kept back with a headband, and is strangely enough wearing a turtleneck on a hot summer day, though her legs are bared with shorts and only covered otherwise by sheer cat-top tights which you know for a fact don’t offer any warmth whatsoever, and temperaturewise, her legs may as well have nothing on them at all. So clearly, she’s not temperature sensitive, but her shirt still baffles you. Oh well, “So, what brings you to summer school?”

“My name’s Rose Lalonde and I went to catholic school a few miles away until I decided that I was sick of it, and the curriculum’s different here so I have to make up the difference,” She shrugged, leaning forward and resting her hand in her palm.

“Too many ex-girlfriends making classes far too awkward?” You probed jokingly, but the look on Rose’s face told you that you actually somehow hit the nail right on the head with that, so you quickly backtrack, “Er, I was only teasing. Sorry if that’s a sore subject. I’m Kanaya Maryam, and I skipped class too many times and got credit reduction despite having rather pleasant grades.”

“Well it’s quite nice to meet you, Kanaya,” She holds her hand out to you and you shake it, slowly. She’s got the sleeves pulled down to the base of her thumbs, as if she’s trying to hide something. You also note she’s got very delicate fingers, “I look forward to attending summer school alongside you. You seem to me as if you might be the one interesting person in this entire school.”

“Can’t be true,” You say simply, tucking some hair back behind your ear, “Because it seems to me like you may be the one interesting person. Therefore, if we both find each other interesting in a sea of the droll, then we must be the only two interesting people in the entire school.”

“Yes, that’s right. I rather like the sound of that indeed, Kanaya.”


End file.
